


Don't Want to Miss a Thing

by tryslora



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: reversathon, HP: EWE, M/M, Minor Character Death, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-01
Updated: 2012-09-01
Packaged: 2017-11-13 07:18:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/500908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a time, Ron had warned Harry about the dangers of workplace romances, but Harry didn’t listen and he and Draco became an item. But after nearly three years together, Harry broke it off. Fifteen months later, the two find it nearly impossible to work together, except when forced into an uneasy alliance. But this assignment isn’t just complicated (it’s amazing the trouble that can be caused by seven time turners and some creative magic), it’s personal, and Harry and Draco are forced to take another look at their relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Could Lie Awake

**Author's Note:**

> As always, JK Rowling owns the characters and world of Harry Potter; I just like to write here.

“I told you not to date him in the first place.”

“You’re not helping, Ron.” Harry shoved clothes into the travel bag Hermione had charmed for him long ago, the first time he’d had to travel as an Auror. He shouldn’t need much, and he didn’t care that it was all going to be wrinkled when he got there. That’s what a few neatening charms were for. Unlike Ron’s clothes, which were probably neatly packed by Hermione that morning and would come out of his bag as neatly pressed as they’d gone in.

When had Ron become the neat one, and Harry become the slob?

Probably when Ron had married Hermione in the same year that Harry had broken things off with Draco.

He balled up another shirt and shoved it into the depths of the bag.

“Don’t take it outPortkey on your shirts, mate.” Ron caught his wrist and forced him to stop packing for a moment. “You’ve already got enough for a week in there, and we should only be there a day or two.”

“Just enough time for you to deliver a few more lectures on how unwise it is to date coworkers,” Harry said dryly.

“Only if the two of you spend the entire time glaring daggers at each other and refusing to get anything done,” Ron retorted. “It’s been bloody well peaceful with him off on assignment these last few months. The two of you are insufferable in the same place.”

“It’s all his fault.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Ron rolled his eyes. “Of course it’s Malfoy’s fault. Don’t think you might want to take a bit of the blame on your own shoulders?”

“When did you start defending Malfoy?” Harry shouldered his bag, checking one more time to make certain he had everything. Wand. Auror badge. Chocolate in his pocket. Clothes. Everything he needed for a quick jaunt to Glasgow. 

“Likely when you started dating him and insisted I give the bloke another chance. Besides, aren’t you the one that decided to break it off with him?”

Ron had a point, not that Harry wanted to discuss it. “It doesn’t matter,” Harry said. He held out a rusty paperclip that had been half bent out of shape and waited for Ron to take the other end of it. A moment later, the Portkey yanked them to Glasgow.

#

“You’re late.”

Of course Malfoy’s first words would be derisive. Harry shrugged the bag off his shoulders. “We’re on time, Malfoy. The Portkey only activated—”

“When you both touched it,” Draco replied, expression cold. “I prepared the Portkey myself, and I am well aware how it worked. You were supposed to leave directly from the office, and by my calculations, you left at least an hour later.”

“Harry had to pack,” Ron said easily. “And we’re here now, and unless we’ve got something to do tonight other than you briefing us on the details of the case, I think an hour isn’t going to matter much. Did you want to do that here, or can we go out and get a pint?” Even at 26, Ron was as boyishly hopeful as ever at the idea of a good drink.

Draco sighed. “Guest room’s through there.” He pointed. “Two beds. It’s not as if the two of you haven’t roomed together before. Put your things down and I might be persuaded to pour you a glass of whiskey. However, we are _not_ going out for a round, Weasley. I’ve been out for rounds with you before, and they rarely end before the sun comes up and are often followed by an excruciating headache, neither of which can we afford right now.”

He was as good as his word, a glass waiting for each of them when Harry and Ron returned. They each settled in to their own chairs, and Harry stared at the roaring fire as he listened to Draco brief them on the current state of the case. Draco had been assigned the case months ago, when Auror Dingle had disappeared. In the intervening time, Dingle had been located and sent to St. Mungo’s to recuperate, where he still resided in the Janus Thickey ward, and Draco had been working constantly to obtain evidence.

“As best I can tell, they are using a series of seven illegal Time-Turners to manipulate probability and timelines,” Draco explained. “Theoretically, what they are doing should be impossible, and yet I can state that it most certainly does work.”

“I thought all the Time-Turners were destroyed—” Ron paused for a gulp of whiskey, expression confused.

“They were. Apparently these are either created outside of the Ministry jurisdiction, or someone spirited them away from the Ministry before the destruction.” Draco’s voice was mild. Harry found it strangely soothing. He remembered the voice well, and with a small glow of warmth from the whiskey, and staring into the flames, he could let it wash over him.

“Potter, are you listening to a word I’ve said?”

“Hm?” Harry twisted to see both Draco and Ron staring at him. “Of course I am.”

“Doesn’t look it, mate.” Ron raised his glass. “Not that I can blame you. Malfoy always has had bloody brilliant taste in whiskey. But I’d have thought you’d have said something about…”

There was something in the way they stared at him that told Harry he had missed a vitally important point. He tried to scroll back in his memory, but all he heard was a soft murmur in those warm tones. He swallowed and shook his head. “About what?”

“It seems that the particular Time-Turners are branded,” Draco said dryly. Harry recognized _that_ tone well as the one Draco used when he was irritated at having to repeat himself. “With a distinctly familiar mark. It also appears that they are reaching back into the past, trying to determine exactly how far they might reach with the use of several Time-Turners in conjunction.”

“You think they’re trying to change the war.” Harry could follow those lines of logic easily, now that Draco had laid the groundwork. “But why Glasgow?”

“There are unique magical properties surrounding Glasgow that amplify locational and temporal magic.” Draco smiled thinly. “Apparition from here, done by one who knows how to utilize those properties, can achieve a slingshot effect and quite easily transport over long distances that might otherwise require a Portkey.”

“So if they figure this out, they could go anywhere, and any _when_ they wanted.” Ron shook his head. “Mate, that’s dire.”

“Exactly.” Draco set his glass down on the side table and steepled his fingers, the tips pressed against his lips. That touch drew Harry in.

It had obviously been too long since he’d stepped out for a shag. Fifteen months, to be exact, since he and Draco had broken things off. Not that he’d want to be back together with Draco. But those fingers were magic, and in the warmth of a slowly building whiskey haze, they were all Harry could think about.

“I can see that planning tonight will be of no use.” Draco stood abruptly, shaking Harry out of his reverie. “If you will excuse me, I will retire for the night. In the morning I will detail the plans for tomorrow’s operation. Given what we intend to interrupt, there will be no room for error. As long as we remove one of the seven planned anchors for their travel, I believe we will be able to ensure that it fails.”

He turned, and Harry could imagine the robes snapping about his heels, even though Draco was dressed in Muggle jeans and a button-up shirt, his feet bare against the hardwood floors of his flat.

“Mate?” Ron put a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “You look knackered. You ought to get some sleep.”

Harry waved him off. “I’ll get there soon enough. I’m just going to have another glass of whiskey.” And stare at the fire while trying not to think about Draco sleeping down the hall.

#

Three glasses later, Harry walked carefully on very wobbly feet. A hand trailed against the wall to keep him upright, and he stopped before he could manage to trip over his own shadow in the dark.

This was Draco’s room. There was a thin slip of light from where the door was cracked open, and Harry nudged it open just a bit more.

Draco lay sprawled on the bed, pale skin lit by moonlight that played across his body. Harry’s gaze was drawn to the scars—scars he had traced often in the almost three years they had been together. Scars that made his fingers itch to touch them again.

He curled his hand tightly, clenched against the urge to reach out.

A soft snuffling noise, and Draco rolled over, throwing one arm wide.

Harry’s breath caught. He leaned against the doorway, letting it support him, and simply stared. This was all he wanted. All he needed. All he could have now.

It had been fifteen months, and he still wanted Draco Malfoy. But nothing had actually changed, and their situation remained impossible.

Still, he could stand here for a little while and watch. He could stand here, letting the walls hold him upright while the whiskey haze faded.

When dawn’s faint first light sent tendrils into the room, Harry turned and stumbled on tired feet down the hall. He could still manage an hour or two of sleep. He burrowed under the covers of his bed, pulling the pillow over his head, and fell into the darkness, leaving dreams of Draco Malfoy behind.


	2. Lost in This Moment

Harry wasn’t in Glasgow anymore.

He was on his knees in the dirt, the taste of dead leaves in his mouth. The air was chilled, but not bitter. Fall, he thought, with that crisp scent in the air that didn’t quite carry the snow. An ache throbbed behind his eyes, and he closed them, shutting out his vision as he tried to sort through tumultuous memories.

Everything had been going perfectly according to plan. They’d located the seventh and final Time-Turner, and found the three cloaked wizards who were performing the ritual. Ron had stunned the first, and Draco had stunned the second. Harry had raised his wand to stun the third, then stopped dead when he saw the face that stared back at him.

His face.

 _His own face_.

He had hesitated just long enough for the incantation to complete. The world went white, then dark, and Harry was here.

Wherever here happened to be.

Harry pushed himself to his feet, standing unsteadily. The vague sense of a headache that had plagued him since his short sleep that morning had exploded into a heavy pounding, and he rubbed at his temple in a reflexive gesture. He stood to look around, noting how quiet it was, as if this place expected something to happen.

Voices.

He went that way automatically, steps slow at first then faster as he heard shouting. Training kicked in when something exploded, and Harry ran. The headache didn’t matter at all just then; all that mattered was intervening in whatever battle he heard.

Arms wrapped around him, yanking him into the shadows just as he saw where he was.

Godric’s Hollow.

October 31, 1981.

Voldemort, cloaked, his wand outstretched. James Potter already lay upon the ground, and Lily cradled a small bundle in her arms.

Harry opened his mouth to shout, to scream, to stop this somehow. A hand clamped down tightly over his mouth, arms holding him in place.

“Don’t make me bind you,” Draco murmured. “You can’t stop this, Harry. It’s happening.”

The bright green flash, and Lily crumpled. A child cried, and Harry’s heart stopped as he watched Voldemort level his wand down, pointing at the infant. The spell flashed green, lighting up the night as it rebounded on Voldemort himself. All that was left in the silence were the child’s wails.

Harry pushed at Draco, forcing himself free. “I could have _stopped_ him,” he snarled.

“And then what?” Draco raised one eyebrow. “Changed the entire course of history? If you didn’t live with the Dursleys, if you didn’t inadvertently kill the Dark Lord, if you weren’t _the bloody Boy Who Lived_ , our lives would be different.”

“They might be better.”

Draco took a step back, suddenly stiff. His smile was pasted on, a smooth mask over his features. “Of course. And _we_ would never have been.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Of course it is, Potter.” Draco walked away, down to where the bodies lay. He knelt beside Lily Potter. Looking for him, Harry knew. Making certain history hadn’t changed. The wails stopped, and Harry looked back in his own mind, trying to remember this moment with Draco Malfoy hovering over him, the only measure of comfort after his parents’ death.

Draco rocked back on his heels and sent his Patronus off in a silvered wisp of air.

Harry couldn’t stand to be there, so he walked away.

#

He had no place to go.

He was trapped in a world he didn’t belong in, and while nobody knew him, he suspected that rumours of a young man with a lightning bolt scar might make the Order suspicious. Not to mention that both he and Draco both looked remarkably like their fathers at younger ages. So after a time Harry stopped walking and sat, not caring that the ground was cold and somewhat wet. He had things to think through. Too many things he didn’t understand.

“Everything has been set back on course.” Draco sat carefully beside him after casting a drying spell upon the ground.

“You followed me.”

“Of course I followed you, you speccy git.” Draco rolled his eyes. “I didn’t see Weasley, so I assume he was free of the field when the spell discharged. However, at least one of the perpetrators was still conscious to complete the spell, so we must assume he’s here as well.”

“He’s me.” Harry drew his knees up, elbows against them, chin propped on his clasped hands. “I saw his face, and if he’s not me, then he bloody well looks like me. But I can’t think why I’d be—”

“You did just try to save your parents.”

“Could you blame me? If you were faced by the death of your parents, right in front of you, wouldn’t you try to do something about it?” Harry glanced at Draco, and was disconcerted by the frank stare of Draco’s silver-grey eyes in return.

One shoulder shrugged. “I can’t say,” Draco admitted. “Never having been in such a situation. But this is still an operation, despite being in the past, and you need to keep your head clear. You’ve always been disturbingly rash in the past, but now any decision you make might impact our future.”

“Seems to me like we ought to stay here then, and not risk anything until we figure out how to get back.”

“For one, I assume the Time-Turner will complete its cycle, and we will be returned automatically.” Draco pushed to his feet and held out a hand. “For two, the person you say is yourself is out there, somewhere, and we need to make sure _he_ doesn’t do any further damage. If he happens to be yourself, it seems to me that the best person to catch you is _you_.”

Harry actually followed most of that, even though he didn’t want to. “Sit down again. We’re not going anywhere until we figure out who he is, and why I’d be doing something like this.”

Draco extended his hand further, putting it where Harry couldn’t ignore it. “We can talk while we walk, Potter. We don’t have time to waste. While the spell has obviously been artificially extended, I do not know the duration of the time turned.”

“Fine.” Harry pushed to his feet, ignoring Draco’s outstretched hand, and brushed leaves from his robes. He turned in place, looking at his surroundings this time, and spotted the faint haze of light off in the distance. “Back to Godric’s Hollow. I suspect I need a drink.”

Draco followed as Harry started walking. “You can’t drink. We’re on duty,” he commented mildly.

“Not me,” Harry said. “ _Me_. The other me. Do you think he could be my father? No… he had the eyes. The same eyes I have.”

“Evans eyes.”

For a moment Harry regretted telling Draco so many things about his family when they were together. He had thought they would have a life, and when they had whispered together late at night, Harry had spilled every secret about his family that he had carried throughout the years. He had given Draco ammunition, and Draco had pulled the trigger of the gun after a time.

But now, when he glanced over, Draco wasn’t looking at him. He had his hands in his pockets, his back ramrod straight, silver gaze focused ahead as they walked. He had simply stated a fact, nothing more. 

“Maybe he really was me,” Harry mused.

“From an alternate timeline?” Draco laughed sharply. “Hardly. There is no such thing.”

“Then what other options could there be?”

Draco fell silent for a long time before he finally spoke quietly. “Your son.”

Impossible. That would require another leap of time, and a child of his who had taken the side of the Death Eaters. It would assume that he would _have_ a child, something Harry never expected to happen.

It assumed a lot of things Harry thought were impossible.

Everything about this situation was impossible.

Harry glanced to his left, taking in the cut of the jaw, the porcelain skin.

Everything was impossible, including the man beside him.

#

The light in the pub drew them in.

They paused outside to cast a simple glamour and leave their robes behind. Both were dressed in Muggle clothes beneath the formal Auror robes, and the spell subtly changed their appearances, lightening Harry’s hair and adding a hint of red to Draco’s. It wasn’t much, just enough to make people glance away before looking too closely at either of them.

Godric’s Hollow wasn’t a fully wizarding village—there was only one of those in Britain, and that was Hogsmeade. So Muggles sat around the bar with their drinks, talking loudly as a telly played a static-ridden broadcast of a football game in one corner.

And at the bar sat a man with messy dark hair, a half-drunk pint in front of him as he stared at the dark grain of the wood.

“I told you I needed a drink,” Harry murmured.

“I think perhaps you might need an intervention,” Draco whispered in return. “Although I shall give you a pass this once; it has most certainly been a stressful day. That table.” He jerked his chin. “It will allow us to observe.”

Draco retrieved drinks from the bar and carried them to the table while Harry settled in. It was eerie to watch the young man. He recognized certain mannerisms, like the way he pushed at his glass, watching it slide in the condensation on the bar. Or the way he pushed at his fringe, nudging it out of his face, then nudging it back again to cover his forehead. Harry tried to catch a glimpse, but couldn’t quite manage to see if the other man had—

“No scar.” Draco set two pints on the table, one in front of Harry. “But he’s as self-conscious about that space on his head as you are, so it’s possible he’s hidden it with a spell. Still,” he frowned faintly, watching. “I don’t believe that’s you.”

“Why not?” Not that Harry wanted to be the villain in this piece, but it was the only option that made the vaguest amount of sense.

“He’s taller, for one. Narrower across the shoulders, slightly less stocky.”

“I’m not fat.”

Draco raised one eyebrow. “Insecure? I didn’t say fat, I said stocky. Compare yourself to me. You are compact, and I am lean. It has absolutely nothing to do with fat and everything to do with the base shape of your body.”

“I’d rather not talk about my body.” As retorts went, it had no barbs, but it was the best Harry had, even though it made Draco snort softly.

“I have no interest in your body anymore, Potter.”

Harry sat up slightly. Draco was lying. He had a tell whenever he was tense, the way his body shifted, the way his fingers tapped—one-two-three—against the wood. Interesting. And somewhat comforting that Harry wasn’t the only one uncomfortable in this situation. “Do you realize we’ve stopped arguing?”

Draco glanced at him. “Weasley would be shocked to discover that we can manage to be professional after all. I won’t tell him if you don’t. I think he might be disappointed. I suspect he was expecting one of us to knock the other unconscious before this assignment was done.”

“We aren’t anywhere near done yet,” Harry pointed out.

“True.” Draco lifted his drink. “To partners in animosity.”

The third chair at the table was pulled out, and Harry paused in his drink to look at the man who had joined them. It was almost like looking into a mirror: the messy dark hair, the bright green eyes. But the face was softer, the body leaner. Draco was right about the differences. And the man was younger, perhaps eighteen or nineteen, and distinctly nervous.

The stranger tapped his fingers against the table. One-two-three. Then he smiled carefully. “Hi, Dad.”


	3. Every Moment Spent With You

This just wasn’t possible.

They had left the pub in favor of finding a better, more private, place to talk. They could see lights at the Potter house, and for a moment Harry paused in the street, watching as he spotted people on brooms and wondered how the Muggles didn’t notice. He began walking again only when Draco nudged him into motion.

“Who is your mother?” Draco inquired of the young man, one eyebrow arching as he looked at him.

“Not on the allowed list of conversation topics,” the stranger replied. “But we can start with the important things. My name is Albus Severus, I’m nineteen years old, and Harry Potter is my biological father.”

The words were shocking, yes, but Harry didn’t know what to do with them yet. His attention drifted back to the house and he stopped dead in the street, spotting Hagrid. “No one knows about Peter Pettigrew,” he said quietly. “If we went over there—”

“History would change, and it might be that Voldemort wins the war in our time.” Draco gripped Harry’s elbow tightly, steering him down the street. “I would hope that any son of yours knows better than to meddle with the timeline, but here he is, and here we are, and what the bloody hell were you thinking Albus Severus Potter.” He fixed the younger man with a glare, but Albus only smiled slightly.

“Potter-Malfoy,” he corrected. “Papa.”

“Papa?” Draco stopped, and Harry bumped into him, one hand going to the small of Draco’s back to steady him.

“I think we need to have this conversation sitting down,” Harry said.

“You told me we’d be better off having it with drinks, but since we’ve left the pub, that’s going to be difficult,” Albus replied with a faint shrug. “Graveyard.” He pointed. “It’ll be quiet there. That’s where I came through.”

Harry didn’t know what Albus meant by saying that Harry himself had commented on the drinks, but the idea of it made sense to him. No, wait… Albus was talking about Harry who was his father. A Harry from the future. Who apparently knew exactly where his son was. “I sent you back? With a _Dark Mark_ on your Time-Turners? Why?”

“And where did you get the Time-Turners?” Draco’s calm tones were back, ready to question a perpetrator in proper Auror fashion. “And if you would, please name your accomplices.”

Albus held up one hand. “Wait.” He led the way back to the graveyard, then pushed open the gate. It looked strange to Harry, knowing his parents were dead but not yet buried here. Different than the last time he had seen it, which was still the future to this particular moment in time.

They found a space and sat, Harry with his knees drawn up, and Albus and Draco both cross-legged. Now that he was paying attention, Harry recognized familiar tics, like the not-quite-synchronized nervous taps of fingers against legs that both Albus and Draco were doing.

“You gave me the Time-Turners,” Albus said. “You gave them to me, Scorpius, and Lily. Scor’s my older brother, and Lily’s our younger sister. But we had to figure out the rest for ourselves, and you were sure we would, since we obviously already had. Since you saw us.”

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, although that did nothing for the headache that had never quite gone away. “You’re talking in circles.”

“It’s a paradox,” Draco said. “Apparently we told you the story of something you did, and thus, you had to do it, lest time be changed.”

“Exactly.” Albus relaxed and the tapping slowed. “If we hadn’t gone back to your time, and hadn’t come here, this never would have happened.”

“This?” Draco and Harry asked at the same time. Harry glanced at his ex, then back at Albus. “What, exactly, are you doing here?” Harry asked.

“Having the conversations I’m allowed to have, and nothing more.” Albus glanced at his watch. “I’ve got about twenty minutes left, unless I’ve miscalculated.”

“We’ll be going back in twenty minutes?”

Albus smiled. “No. _You’ll_ be going back tomorrow morning. You probably ought to find a room. You’ll freeze if you sleep outside.”

It occurred to Harry that Albus knew _exactly_ what he and Draco had done here, and knew whether they’d spent the night on the hard ground of the graveyard, or arguing over a bed in a nearby inn. 

It also occurred to Harry that Albus had been raised by both of them somehow. He looked over at Draco to find him studying Harry in return, expression grave.

“Simply because you are telling us one version of the future does not necessarily mean that it will come to pass,” Draco said quietly.

“I know. But if I want my future, I have to play my part in the past,” Albus said. “There are rules to time travel, and I don’t want to be the one to break the known universe.” His expression was sad. “I’m sorry you couldn’t save Grandpa, Dad. But you didn’t, so you couldn’t. Time doesn’t like it when changes are made that it didn’t already have in motion.”

“You’re talking like time is intelligent.” Harry tried rubbing his temples, but that didn’t help either. The idea of a drink was becoming more and more appealing; his future self had obviously had the right idea in mind.

“Who’s to say it isn’t?” Albus shrugged. “No one knows exactly how it works, but things happen the way they are supposed to happen. Even if we changed things, we’d believe that’s the way they always were, so we wouldn’t know they’d changed.”

“My head hurts.”

“You never were one for grand theory,” Draco drawled.

“No, my head actually _hurts_.” Harry pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead. “I need a headache potion. And a drink.”

“Take him back to the pub. He’ll feel better once he’s had a chance to think things through,” Albus suggested.

Draco fixed them both with a glare. “We are still dealing with a long standing case and the perpetrator in front of me. We are not going anywhere until this case is tied up neatly.”

“Ron Weasley already has my brother and sister.” Albus’ expression was serious. “They’re under watch, but in the middle of the night they are going to disappear mysteriously. And I won’t be going back there. When the time on my Time-Turner expires, I’ll be going back to my own time. All our files are where we left them, and you can have those and turn them in. But there won’t be any more time experiments.” He winced. “And I’m sorry for what happened to Dingle. You’ll find a file among our things to help him out, too. But if we hadn’t sent him off to St. Mungo’s, Papa never would’ve been assigned the case. We were starting to get desperate.”

“Because you know that Draco and I worked on this case. Together.” Harry’s words were slow. Careful. He had the sense of this now, and thought he could see what was being done. “Albus, you _do_ realize that we’re not your fathers. We aren’t even together.”

“I know.” For a moment, Albus looked like he wanted to say more, but instead he stood up and brushed himself off. Harry saw Draco’s mannerisms in the way Albus smoothed his trousers, then saw himself as Albus finger-combed his messy hair.

Harry felt the strength of Draco’s gaze, and glanced over at him. “Perhaps a drink would be of help to both of us.” His tone was neutral.

“I have to go.” Albus took a step backwards, then paused, smiling suddenly. “There is _one_ thing I’m allowed to tell you about my mum. When you ask her to be your surrogate, she’ll say yes, for both of you. She loves you dearly, and knows how much having a family means to you. So just promise me you’ll ask.”

“Who?” Harry had to ask, even if he knew there wouldn’t be an answer, and of course, Albus shook his head.

“You’ll figure it out when the time comes.” Albus bit his lip, then spread his hands and shrugged. “I guess the only other thing to say is good luck.”

The younger man glanced at something on his wrist and made a face. He turned to walk away, but before he had gone more than a few steps, he simply disappeared.

“I need a drink.” Harry let his head fall forward into his hands. “Several of them.”

“As do I.”

Harry would have taken joy from the resigned frustration in Draco’s tone, but he ached too much from the stress of the day to do so. Both of them sat for a long time, before finally managing to get to their feet, and slowly make their way back to the pub.


	4. This Sweet Surrender

It took a few drinks before Harry felt distanced enough from himself to relax.

They had a bottle of whiskey on the table between them, and half of it was gone, the amber liquid drunk down until the burn eased the ache in Harry’s mind. They drank without speaking, the only sounds the soft clink of glass against table, or the answering sound of the bottle against the rim of the glass when they refilled for another round.

“Our son,” Harry mused finally.

“Not exactly,” Draco pointed out. “He is _your_ son.” A small pause, as Draco’s forehead furrowed. “He _will be_ your son. I can’t say exactly when, but apparently sometime after his brother is born, but before his sister.”

Those facts were plainly obvious, according to the story Albus had told, but Harry found himself nodding anyway, as if Draco had spoken some great truth. “I wonder if one of them is yours,” Harry said idly. “I can’t imagine you going without an heir. But I’d have to wonder who the mother is.”

“Seems to me there’s no point in wondering, since we’re not likely to raise a family together.”

The words were sharp, biting into the air between them and reinforced by a hard grey glare. Harry blinked under the force of that gaze, and looked down into his cup as if it might hold the answers. “You’re right,” he agreed. “We can’t raise a family together since we aren’t together.”

“And whose fault would that be?”

“Mine.” Harry claimed that easily enough. “You were an utter shite prat, and I broke it off with you. A year ago. No, more. Fifteen months, two days.”

“And three hours. If we were in the present and counting, that is.” Draco tossed back the last of his current round of whiskey and poured himself another. Lifting the glass, he commented, “We paid for the whole bottle. We oughn’t waste it.”

“Of course.” Sometimes Draco could be reasonable, and that advice in particular made sense to Harry, so he drank down his own whiskey, swallowing the fire and refilling the glass before taking another sip. “We aren’t counting, you know.”

Even thought it was strangely obvious that they both were. Why would Draco be counting? He’d walked away readily enough, agreeing with Harry’s reasons to break it off.

Reasons around the ideas of procreation and inheritance. Law was a complicated, irritating thing, and just the idea of considering it threatened to bring Harry’s headache back, so he took another gulp of whiskey to keep it at bay.

It occurred to him, briefly, that the headache was just waiting in the wings and would pounce him later, when the alcohol wore off. It was a nightmare waiting to happen, but as long as he kept drinking, the pain would stay away. So he did.

He went to lift his glass, but pale fingers covering it stopped him. A frown creased his forehead as he looked at Draco. “We were drinking,” he said.

“And now we are done,” Draco replied. “I believe the man behind the bar would like us to leave.”

The man Draco indicated was cleaning, and the pub was quite empty. In fact, everything was empty, including their bottle. Harry nodded. “You’re right.” Thankfully the bottle had been paid for long ago, so all that was required was to stand carefully, leaning against the shoulder Draco offered and feeling the weight as the other man leaned back against him.

In this manner they made their way out into the chill night air. Once in the street, Harry could see the Potter home again. It lay quiet, as if nothing untoward had happened there earlier in the night. One war had ended, Harry realized. Another would begin eventually, but it would end as well. This was a time of peace.

He had a feeling that was significant, but for the life of him he couldn’t figure out why.

“Where do you plan to sleep tonight?” Draco followed his gaze, and shuddered delicately. “It might be your ancestral home, Potter, but I don’t believe I could manage to close my eyes in that place tonight.”

“Neither could I.” Harry felt oddly sober compared to just a few moments before. “I always wanted to see my parents, Draco, but not like that. Not at the moment they died. I feel like—I feel like I should have done something.”

“You can’t change the past, Harry,” Draco said mildly. “Only the future.”

Harry glanced over at Draco, realizing that he’d used his given name rather than Potter. The tone was gentle, not derisive. It reminded him of the early days, before the weight of family responsibilities put pressure on their relationship.

It reminded him how much he had missed Draco these last months, and how much he still wanted him.

Whiskey buzzed in his veins, warming him from within. He turned to catch Draco, pulling him in to kiss him thoroughly. When Draco’s mouth opened in surprise, Harry took advantage, pressing in, tasting the whiskey on his breath. He sighed into the kiss, smiling as Draco kissed him back…

…Until hands came up between them and pushed, forcing Harry to stumble back.

Harry blinked. “What was that for?”

“You’re pissed,” Draco said flatly. “And for that matter, so am I. And I will _not_ indulge in a drunken shag simply because I have been celibate for far too long and am obviously not over you.”

“I’m not over you either.” Harry doubted he could have said that if he were sober, so in that respect, wasn’t being drunk helpful? “I might even still love you.”

“Now you’re being sappy.” The words were tight and sharp, but there was a small smile lurking in Draco’s expression, almost emerging when he looked at Harry. “However, we are not discussing this tonight.”

“We’re going to end up sleeping in the graveyard.” Which was a change of topic, yes, but it had occurred to Harry that it was the only place he knew for certain would be available. “Unless there’s a bed and breakfast here that’s open at this hour.” He frowned, realizing just how late it had gotten. “I doubt it. I’m sure they’d think we’re completely mad if we knocked on the door.”

“They’ll think we’re mad if they find us sleeping in the graveyard, too.” Yet, even with that said, Draco nudged Harry and they both continued to head back to the graveyard where they had spoken with Albus earlier.

Here and there, back and forth, running circles around Godric’s Hollow. _That_ was important, Harry was sure of it. “We’re not getting anywhere new,” he observed. “We keep going back to the same things. Where I was born. The pub. The graveyard. It’s a loop.”

“Just like time.” Draco eased himself to the ground when they found a likely spot, and Harry slumped next to him. The gravestone made an uncomfortable pillow when they leaned back, half against it and each other. “Perhaps it’s symbolic,” Draco mused. “The cyclical nature of time.”

“Maybe we’re just stuck,” Harry said.

“That too.”

Draco fell silent, and Harry twisted his head to look at him. He hadn’t changed much since school: same pointy chin, same grey eyes. But there were scars there that hadn’t existed when they were children, and his body had filled out. Draco was lean, but no longer lanky. The overly thin teenager had been replaced by a carefully honed man. One that Harry had known intimately.

It wasn’t a bad view, here in the graveyard. Draco’s face was cast in profile, moonlight limning the edges of his cheekbones and chin. Harry itched to touch him, so he did, trailing one finger along those sharp bones.

“What is it?” Draco asked, not looking at him. “Do you feel the need to pet me?”

“No.” Harry flattened his palm against Draco’s cheek, turning his head, forcing him to face in his direction. “Kiss you.”

And he did.

Draco protested at first, then gave in with a sigh. Harry pushed for nothing more than kisses, and Draco let him have that for a long time, until the first soft edges of dawn came, and exhaustion had them leaning against each other, half asleep.

#

The faint tickle of something under his skin woke Harry. It hadn’t been long enough for proper sleep, and he yawned broadly. “We didn’t freeze,” he said. Draco muttered under his breath, and Harry realized that they’d fallen over sometime in their sleep, and he held the other man cradled to his chest.

It felt familiar, and right, and he was loath to let go.

But something tickled at his senses, like a feather trailed up and down his spine, and he shifted, trying to get a better sense of it. A twist in his gut, and he gripped Draco tightly. “Wake up,” he urged.

“Hm?” Draco shivered, holding on. “What is that bloody awful—”

The twist happened again, yanking at Harry’s center and making him feel like it was tugged up into his throat. It took everything he had to hold his stomach in place. The world blinked and rolled, and when it righted again, the sensation was gone.

Draco rolled away, ending face down, hands planted against the ground, forehead pressed down as he breathed in and out, long and slow. “That was unpleasant.”

“I don’t think I’m drunk anymore.” He wasn’t hungover, either, Harry realized. And even more importantly, they were home. Harry’s flat, to be specific. The exact same flat that he’d shared with Draco for the better part of two years. Draco had his face nestled against the expensive Persian carpet that he’d bought Harry as a gift, and refused to take when Harry tossed him out.

The significance wasn’t lost on Draco. “We appear to have raised three very intelligent children,” he said dryly. “This was quite well done as a pinpoint transfer spell. I suspect there is a Time-Turner hidden within this flat, which shall have to be returned to Weasley for evidence.”

“Not if he already has the seven you identified while on the case,” Harry said. “We’ll keep this one. Give them something to build off of.” He sat there, knees up, watching Draco. “Because we haven’t raised those children yet. It seems we’ve got at least twenty years to go. If we can manage to put up with each other.” The logic seemed clear and simple in the light of day. For them, it was the future, but for the young man they had met last night, it was the past. Harry couldn’t be surprised to know that children raised by himself and Draco would do anything to ensure their future.

Draco’s lips pursed. “You’re the one who tossed me out on my arse,” he pointed out. “Over a minor point—”

“Your parents were urging you to get married!” Harry retorted.

“I wasn’t going to do it.” Draco’s expression grew rueful. “I had to tell them I would, of course, lest the arguments become entirely unmanageable. But I would have brought them around in time, and in fact, I did. We have made an agreement. At some point, in the future, I shall select a pureblooded witch to be my surrogate, and I shall raise an heir, and that heir will be a legal Malfoy. But I will not marry in order to do so.”

Harry didn’t know quite what to say to that. He remembered the bitter arguments they had had at the time, and how angry and frustrated Draco was every time he returned from seeing his parents. He remembered watching his lover grow distant, and how he had _known_ the end was coming.

Harry had broken things off with Draco before Draco could break them off with him.

Perhaps he’d been wrong.

“So what you’re saying is that your parents might accept if you were in a relationship with a bloke now,” he said cautiously.

“A man, yes. You, likely not.” Draco smirked, teasing. “But I feel quite certain that you won’t wilt under my father’s glare any more now than you did years ago.”

Harry shifted, coming to hands and knees so he could crawl over to Draco and stretch out beside him. “We’re sober,” he pointed out. “And I think this rug has missed you.”

“The rug has.” Draco’s tone was bland.

“The rug has,” Harry repeated. He rolled over on top of Draco, leaning in for a kiss as their hips pressed together. “And maybe I have too.”

“I still love you,” Draco murmured in the brief moments between kisses.

“I know.”


	5. A Moment I Treasure

“And the spell transported you to your flat. And into the next day.” Ron pinched the bridge of his nose, and Harry couldn’t blame him. Without explaining exactly who their perpetrators were, it didn’t make sense. But they had to give some sort of story, and as they had waited in the Auror’s office for Ron to show up for the debriefing, this was the story they had concocted. Simple, and impossible to disprove.

“Exactly,” Draco said dryly. He lied easily with a straight face, one eyebrow lifted, daring Ron to gainsay him. “Have you found out any useful information from the two who were knocked out in order to determine what, exactly, they were trying to do?”

That was a definite redirect of the conversation. Not to mention that it wasn’t a fair question, and Harry had to bite back a laugh, since they knew very well that Ron had failed at that.

“Er. Well.” Ron rubbed his eyes, ending with the heel of his hand pressed against his eye socket. “That would be no. They disappeared.”

“Disappeared.” Both eyebrows were up now. Draco crossed his arms, chin tilting so he could look down his nose at Ron. “After months of research, you managed to destroy my case in one evening—”

“Harry’s the one that missed the last shot,” Ron said quickly. “Why’d you hesitate, mate?”

“Thought I recognized him,” Harry admitted, because that was at least the truth. “But I didn’t have time to figure out who it was, just that he seemed familiar, then everything fell apart.”

“And I’m so terribly thrilled by your hesitation, Potter.” Draco turned that look on him, and Harry managed to keep his answering expression mild. “Again, several _months_ of research, and you two come into my operation and completely arse everything up.”

“Not everything,” Ron assured him hastily. “We’ve got all the evidence, and all seven Time-Turners.”

Harry raised one eyebrow and glanced at Draco. _See_? Draco nodded faintly in reply.

“Whatever they were doing, they’re shut down now, and we can give the time tuners over to evidence and let them take them apart, see what traces of magic they can find on them,” Ron said. “I don’t think we need to worry about it starting up again. We’ll find whoever it was long before they have the chance.”

Or not, Harry thought, since the people involved didn’t have any sort of records on file yet, and likely wouldn’t for years. Even if they started immediately, they still needed to find a surrogate, then nine months for a child to be born, and they had no idea how long they’d waited between Scorpius and Albus. Harry frowned, worrying at a cuticle on his finger as he was lost in thought.

“I miss something, mate?” Ron clapped him on the back, and Harry blinked in confusion.

“What?”

“You looked deep in thought, and I wondered if I’d missed something crucial.”

Harry shook his head. “No, I think that’s all of it. I’m just tired. Never been good with Portkeys, and it feels something like the after-effects of that.”

Ron gave him a dubious look, and Harry smiled, hoping Ron would at least decide not to pressure him about it. They both knew it was a lie, but Ron didn’t have to know what he was covering up.

Ron glanced sideways at Draco, then back to Harry, and his mouth thinned. “You’ve forgotten my advice again, haven’t you? Do you remember where that got you last time?”

“Is there a problem, Weasley?” Draco tapped a finger against the desk. One-two-three. Harry almost smiled.

Ron shoved one hand into his hair, combing it out roughly. “No, there’s not a problem. But if you two could manage to not make my life miserable this time around, I’d appreciate it. See if you can get a bit further along before breaking it off, or if you decide you can’t stand each other any more, maybe one of you ought to transfer out of the Aurors. Go be an Herbologist and raise carnivorous plants. It’d be safer for me.”

“What we do, or do not do, is none of your business.” Despite the words, Draco’s tone was mild. When Harry drifted closer and covered those tapping fingers to still them, Draco smiled in response.

“I think everything’s going to be fine this time around,” Harry said. “But I’m going to take the rest of the day off. You’ve got enough to write up the report, right, Ron?”

“Wait, me?” Ron’s mouth hung open. “This isn’t my operation. Draco ought to be writing up—”

“I’m afraid I’ve a need for some personal time off,” Draco drawled, smirking. “But the report is due today. Please make sure you get that on Shacklebolt’s desk.”

“You can’t—bloody hell, do I even want to know what the two of you are…” Ron’s voice trailed off, a flush beneath the freckles on his cheeks. “No, no I don’t. I don’t want to know anything. And no,” he held up one finger as Draco’s mouth opened. “You should go now before you feel the need to tell me what your plans are. I’ll write your report if it means I don’t need to listen to the gory details.”

He backed out of the room with his hands up; Harry managed to wait until the door closed behind him before he laughed. “It’ll be all over the DMLE by the time we walk out of this office,” he said.

“Weasley’s a gossip.” Draco shrugged one shoulder, but didn’t seem fussed. “If he’s going to tell everyone, we might as well give them something to talk about.”

Harry grinned. “Do you think my desk missed you as well?”

“Your _desk_?” Draco nudged him back towards that very desk, pushing close so that Harry was trapped there while Draco claimed a kiss. “First the rug, then the desk. I think you’re having difficulty owning your own emotions,” he murmured, trailing kisses down Harry’s neck.

“No problems owning this one.” Harry dragged him back up for a thorough kiss. “But just in case, we should make sure the desk doesn’t miss you anymore.” He gasped as Draco pressed closer. “Just in case.”

There was no privacy spell on the door, and twenty minutes later, as they strolled out to head for the apparition point, knowing glances followed them. It only took one sharp glance from Draco to send them all scurrying back to work, but word was out: Potter and Malfoy were back together again.

#

“Luna.”

Draco paused with his fork halfway to his mouth, then set it down slowly. “Luna?” The name was spoken slowly, with a hint of uncertainty. “Harry, why are we discussing—”

“Luna Lovegood would be our surrogate.” Harry set his own fork down and reached for his wine to wash the last swallow of his dinner down. “I knew I had an idea in the back of mind, and it’s just come to me.”

Draco blinked, and Harry had to smile.

“I’m not joking,” Harry said. “She’s one of the best choices I can think of. Hermione has Ron and Ginny has Dean; neither of them is going to want to carry one child for us, let alone three. I’m not sure Ginny will ever _have_ children, given her career with the Harpies. On your side, there’s Pansy, but Theodore Nott’s a jealous git and I’m not willing to deal with that. Luna, on the other hand, is a free spirit, and she’d do it.”

“She’s married to Rolf Scamander, isn’t she?” Draco pointed out.

He also hadn’t taken another bite. Harry was well aware of Draco’s tells by now, and the complete calm tones, and lack of appetite, were most definitely telegraphing uncertainty and discomfort. He covered Draco’s hand so he couldn’t possibly begin to tap. “She is. But he’s not exactly traditional either. I suspect that if Luna happened to inform him that she was carrying a child for a friend, he’d support her.”

“I’m quite certain they want to have their own children, Harry.”

“Draco.” Harry squeezed his hand. “What’s wrong with Luna? She’s a good friend, and you certainly can’t argue with either her bloodlines or her intelligence.”

“She’s barmy,” Draco said flatly. “She believes in things that don’t exist.”

“Some do.” Harry couldn’t prove it, but he was still sure that Luna knew things that others didn’t. “And she won’t be the one raising our children. We will. So we’ll make sure they’re rooted right here in the real world. Which I have to admit, Albus seemed to be. Although the idea of traveling back through time to reunite your estranged parents just so they’ll get back together and find a surrogate and have a family… that might be a bit fanciful. But, it exists, and they pulled it off.” Harry shrugged. “I think she’d be a perfect fit.”

Draco was silent for a long moment. He finally picked up his fork, taking another bite of dinner. His hand turned beneath Harry’s, fingers tangling with his. “And you think she’ll say yes?”

Harry gave an inward sigh of relief. “Yes, I do. I think she’d be perfect.”

“Then we’ll ask her tomorrow.” Draco took another bite, as if nothing important had just been said, while Harry struggled to remember how to breathe in the aftermath of the stress.

“Oh, and Harry?” Draco paused again, fork halfway to his mouth. “We won’t be going to work tomorrow.”

It was Harry’s turn to feel the bottom drop out of his stomach, suddenly uncertain in the face of Draco’s pronouncement. “We won’t?”

“Of course not.” Draco took a sip of wine. “No one works on the day they officially register their bond.” He glanced at Harry. “Do they?”

“Register... Bond…” Harry gasped, choking on a gulp of wine. “Draco—”

“That is, if you want to.” Draco’s spoke as if it were no matter. “I’ve selected rings, and arranged for your friends and mine to attend. Perhaps you might speak with Luna after the ceremony.” One eyebrow arched, waiting. “I do believe this is where you say _yes_.”

“Yes.” The word was very certainly said as Harry reached out and threaded his hand into Draco’s hair, cupping his head and dragging him closer. “Yes. Definitely yes.”

As they broke for air, Draco was smiling and Harry couldn’t contain his own grin. Draco tried to arch his eyebrow, failing at the snide look he usually managed. “Might we finish our dinner now?”

Harry shoved his dishes to one side, clearing part of the table. “I was thinking more of dessert.”

“The kitchen table, Harry? Really?”

With a laugh, Harry tugged Draco to stand with him, nudging him back against the table. “It missed you, too.”

And for a very long time, that was all that was said. 


End file.
